


Guardian of the Garden

by Humanities_Handbag



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (slaps the side of my fanfic) this baby can fit so many metaphors, Good Omens Big Bang, Guardian of the Garden - Freeform, I will absolutely spell things wrong, M/M, Plants, Requited Unrequited Love, we misspell like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-03
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:28:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22537780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Humanities_Handbag/pseuds/Humanities_Handbag
Summary: Aziraphale, was put on the earth, he believed, to do two things.Conquer demons and watch over gardens.But, as it turns out, he’s a little terrible at both.(or: Aziraphale kills some plants and falls in love along the way)
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 18
Kudos: 116
Collections: Good Omens Big Bang 2019





	Guardian of the Garden

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hollow-head](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=hollow-head), [khenq](https://archiveofourown.org/users/khenq/gifts).



> I want to thank my wonderful artists, hollow-head and khenqart, who were absolutely critical to me finishing the piece. These last three months have been difficult for me, and they were nothing less than patient and supportive. 
> 
> Please check them both out on Tumblr. Their art is stunning, and I was so lucky to be able to work with them both.
> 
> I'd love to thank my beta s.tm.5, who was lovely and kind and so patient. 
> 
> And to the Mods of the GOBB - thank you for putting up with my constant email stream.

Once, long ago, there was an Angel put on the wall in a garden.

And he was the protector of all plants. 

Or at least, he assumed he was.

He, Aziraphale, was the protector of all things green and growing and leafy and perfumed and growing from the Earth. 

And he, Aziraphale, was very proud of that fact. 

His existence began with plants. And so it only made sense. God had placed him with a flaming sword on a wall, overlooking the most splendid garden the world would ever know.

God put him there and said "Aziraphale, you are to guard the walls and what is inside."

And that was where the Angel found himself; surrounded by orchids and lilies and freesias and huge, wallowing palm trees. 

It only made sense that he was the _protector_ of this. 

He’d been put in charge of the wall, technically. He was on apple tree duty, and he took that as a sign that he was mean to take care of _plants_ , just as much as a very tall, very important, very stuffy wall. 

So on the eighth day (a few days after light and sound and all the other crucial brick-a-brack had been put in place), he wandered down into the garden and found a lovely little patch of daisies.

“Well aren’t you all simply _divine_ ,” he told the plants, beaming, conjuring up a little cloud to give them water. Because he knew that much. That plants needed light and water.

(a protector must know what the protected things needed)

The earth began to darken. 

“I’ve never had a garden before. Earth being new and all that, you see,” he explained reasonably. 

The earth began to bubble. 

“But I’ve gotten this job you see - a small job, truly. Nothing Gabriel would push about after. But it’s a _good_ job! I do think you’ll like it, too! I take care of the wall over there!” He pointed back while the rain kept falling. 

The earth began to cry. 

If dirt could look sad, it would have been absolutely pathetic. 

Not that Aziraphale noticed. Far too content in his story to notice the way the dirt was becoming less dirt and more ocean. “And I’m in charge of that tree! The apple tree, in the middle. Sturdy little sapling. I’m sure you’ve seen it. All the rage around these parts. Real rumor mill, these new humans” 

The earth dipped, sagged, and whimpered. 

“And so I’m here to be your protector and gardener and- oh. Oh my.”

It was a small mercy that the bible did not include this moment. It would have been a real embarrassing little tidbit, this;

_And on the eighth day, aft'r our L'rd did create Lighteth and Life, Aziraphale the Angel, protecteth'r of the most wondrous bulwark and the creatures within, hath said “let th're beest mud,” and th're wast mud, and so the plants w're drown'd and the garden did look a right mess._

The raincloud vanished with a snap, and what was left behind was little more than a soggy mess full of swooning, gasping daisies. “Oh,” Aziraphale said again, fumbling with the sleeves of his robe. “Well… plants are meant to be watered so… perhaps… uh…” He cleared his throat. “Right, you lot. Buck up. This is a learning curve, and I’m your protector, so I’m sure… I’m sure that this is just fine.”

It was not _just fine_. 

The ninth day, after the sun had risen again, he found that the daisies lay wilted, browned, and mushy in a pool of foamy mud. 

It really was a miracle. In a Garden of Eternal Life, Aziraphale (protector of the wall and the garden and One Particular Tree) was apparently the only one who could efficiently kill things. 

“Oh _drat_ ,” he muttered, poking at the mud with a stick. The daisies flopped around. He blew out a breath, feeling an awful lot like the floppy, useless daisies busy withering in the mud. 

Devoid. 

Wilted. 

Very, very useless. 

He threw down the stick, closing his eyes, taking in a few deep breaths to fill the awful stones filling his belly. “Some protector,” he mumbled to himself, before turning away from his mess, back towards his wall. 

* * *

The next day from his place on the wall, looking over all of God’s creatures and thinking about oncoming rain clouds, it took him a good moment to notice the figure in dark robes standing over his wilted daisies. 

The figure, a lanky fellow with an obnoxious head of fiery hair, stood above his little drowned plot of land. He tilted his head one way. 

Tilted it the other way. 

He bent down. 

Touched the earth. 

Aziraphale watched him, not bothering to call out to tell him that making fun of his little failed garden was absolutely a horrid thing to do. The stranger never did. He never noticed Aziraphale on top of the wall, either. 

He just hung over the plants, his hands dug into the dirt, his fingers fiddling with the stalks. 

By the time Aziraphale met the figure atop the wall and learned his name (Crawley), and what he was (full time daemon, part time snake, dabbling in apple salesmanship), he’d forgotten about the whole thing. 

The Angel and the Demon stood on a wall guarded by an angel, watching the humans move forward through the haze of a first rain. 

Watch them until they recede away over the dunes. 

And then it’s just angel and demon and a garden, which had been the beginning and, Aziraphale realized a little sadly, looking behind him, the end, too. “Well,” he said, slotting away his wings and pressing the wrinkles from his robe. “I suppose that’s that, then.”

Crawley hummed. He’d been mostly silent, watching the space where the two humans had gone, standing beside Aziraphale a good time after the rains had begun, splattering the land in a haze, drumming on the flowers. His words were soft enough that the rains almost drowned them out. 

“I’ll miss this place.” Crawley’s voice wasn’t made to say serious things, Aziraphale thought. It was wry and thin and created to joke and banter and snip. It was part of being a demon, probably. But he says those words seriously enough.

“I suppose. Not much to miss about a big wall, though. And there’s so much _sand_. Gets in everything-”

“Not the _wall_ ,” said the daemon, flicking some curls behind his shoulders. “The _garden_.” And when he turned to look, there was something tragic about it. “It’s what I’ll miss the most out of all of this, I think.”

Aziraphale looked back with him, over the lilies and the palm trees and the willows. He kept his gaze mostly away from the little patch of drowned daisies still sitting pitifully in the muddy ground. They seemed to be glaring up at him. “Well,” he said, turning away, feeling the very Flowery-Glare still on his back. “I suppose it had to happen sometime.”

Yellow eyes traced every bud and leaf and stalk. “Shame,” he said to himself. “A shame, really.”

The Angel tucked his wings down, shaking the rain out. They’d begun to feel heavy. He was not loving this _rain_ business.

Even if it made the demons hair look a little too dashing.

“I mean, of course, it was meant to be this way,” he said, finally, looking away from the dashing hair and the glaring daisies, clearing his throat. “Ineffable, you know. God has a plan for everything. Regrowth. Rebirth. All the good R words.” 

Cawley hummed. “Seems a bit extreme, though. Doesn’t it? Laying out some perfectly lovely plants for doing what they’re meant to do. Apples are _meant_ to be eaten, you know. S’what they’re made for. Be like punishing a whole lot of sand for sticking in your sandals, innit?”

It makes sense. 

Aziraphale refuses to say so.

Instead, he straightens his back and wriggles his wings and explains plainly and clearly, “Nothing God does is _pointless_. The humans fell, the plants fell. And if the apple was so intent on staying sinless, then perhaps it should have stayed whole.”

“I doubt that’s the apples choice.”

“No, I do believe that was yours.”

Crawley snorted. “Like I knew what an apple would do. Plenty of other fruits to choose from in there! It wasn’t like I went about and said, _Hey there, Eve-Old-Girl, would you like to damn all humanity or sample some lovely grapes!_ Threw a few tangerines at her head, too, and those didn’t topple humanity, now did they?”

Aziraphale crossed his arms and refused to answer. 

Crawley watched the dunes some more, crossing his arms to ward away the worlds first chill. There was quiet between them again. Quiet enough that Aziraphale began to question what he was doing there, still standing next to a demon, until said Demon surprised him when he turned and asked, “Won’t you miss it?”

“What. The wall?”

“Oh yes. Absolutely. The wall. _No_ , not the wall!” He gestured behind to the acropolis of greenery. “The _garden_. Don’t you… I don’t know… protect some part of this sandy place? Something important, I’m sure.”

“I protect the wall and everything inside,” Aziraphale sniffed. “And it is important. But… but I can’t just _stop_ what God wants. Whyever they must go, there must be a good reason, mustn’t there.”

“Maybe God’s got hay fever.”

Aziraphale straightened at the blasphemy. “Or perhaps,” he said, trying to sound all the Angelic Guardian he was meant to, “they weren’t perfect enough.”

A breath. 

Crawley went very quiet, very still.

The garden behind them swayed. A wind turned directions, and the bending trees groaned. “Do you suppose that’s why, then? Why they’ve got to go?”

“That’s the only answer I can think of.” The demons yellow eyes were fast on him, and the scent of lilies were beginning to make his head spin. He looked away. “I was put here to protect Eden. To protect something perfect. But now it’ll be felled, and there’s nothing much I can protect after that. A true Eden wouldn’t fall, would it?”

And Crawley stayed quiet a long time after that. 

“No,” he said. “No. I suppose it wouldn’t have.” 

Aziraphale would never question any of it.

Aziraphale would also never see that the drowned daisies, by the time they’d left the garden, were fully in bloom.

* * *

Aziraphale was put on the earth, he believed, to do two things. Conquer demon’s and watch over gardens. He knows the first because Gabriel made a point at every staff meeting to encourage the demon part, and he knew the second because. Well. That’s why he was put on the wall in the first place, wasn’t it? Standing over the garden’s, watching Adam and Even and the hyacinths, the blooming tulips, the striking palm trees, and the single apple tree. 

But, as it turns out, he’s a little terrible at both. 

He’d hoped that after the daisy incident, things would get easier. He’d get better with practice, he told himself. That all he had to do was try and keep trying, and after a time he’d finally be able to master this whole horticulture business. 

Except that no matter what, the plants he touches tended to… expire. 

It would begin sometime just after the fall of the garden, when Aziraphale decided to try his hand at a little grove of cactuses he came across on his way to Bethlehem. 

Within a few days, they’d all shriveled up and dried out. 

He tried later when he found an oasis in the midst of a large expanse of desert. A few ferns dipped their roots into the water, while the algae and weeds sprouted happily towards the bright sun. 

The ferns would be on their sides by nightfall. 

“Oh _drat_ ,” said Aziraphale, stepping away guiltily from the scene, ignoring the way that the algae seemed to look a little too happy about his retreat. If algae could even look happy. “Well… I suppose one does need an awful lot of practice to become perfect…” 

The algae shivered beneath the water.

The second thing he’d still not mastered was not his fault. 

The world is filled with gardens. 

And it is also filled with Crowley. 

It was unfortunate that the two seemed to clash often. 

And reason he’d been failing at demon smiting. 

It was all the fault of a demon formerly known as Crawley, he told himself over and over. The demon Crowley, who appeared every so often beside him. The demon Crowley, with yellow eyes sharp and teasing, mouth pulled into a smile. The sort of smile that made Aziraphale think back to the fires of Alexandria, red as Crowley’s hair, and wonder if he could walk right into them. 

Wonder if they would have burned him just as much. 

And that mouth has quite a few opinions about goodness and god and heaven that make his skin itch. 

He also has opinions about plants. 

“You know,” Crowley says, sometime just before the fall of Cesar. “I think those plants are meant to grow _up_ .” Said plants were a group of sapling palm trees Aziraphale was trying to grow for the Emperor. He’d been assigned work at the castle by Gabriel, and had shown up pretending to be a gardener. It made sense at the time. He was the protector of all things leafy green and rooted, so he’d _have_ to be the garden. 

Which made it all the more frustrating when the plants refused to cooperate. 

He’d noticed the guards whispering about him behind his back, and was doing his best to fix the mistakes he’d made. The Emperor was notoriously fond of executions, and he didn’t need to be discorporated because of a tree. 

Even if that tree were a little lopsided. 

“They _will_ grow upwards,” he grumbled. “They just need time to figure themselves out.”

“Mmhm.”

“I’m the Guardian Angel of Plants,” Aziraphale snarled, giving the tree a vicious tug. “I’ll figure it out eventually.” 

“Oh. Yeah. Sure. Course.” Crowley leaned against a not-so lopsided tree. “Sure you are. And I’m sure they’ll grow to be big and strong and sideways.”

“Unless you have something constructive to offer…” He tried to pull the sapling up again, and it creaked sadly before whipping back sideways. “Why are you here, anyway? Demonic plots boiling beneath the surface?”

“Something like that.” He leaned back, staring upwards at the sky. “My side wants some sort of a rebellion here.”

“And _my side_ ,” Azirpahale snapped pointedly, “assigned me here to watch the Emperor.”

“At least that explains the garden.”

“Maybe I was here for a spot of horticultural curiosity.”

Crowley laughed, pitching back his head back, and Aziraphale has to remind himself that he was an angel and angel’s do _not_ pick up and throw dirt. “Of course, oh protector of the Sideways Tree.”

“Crowley.”

“I’m joking, angel.” His smile fell a little. “You may as well start packing, though. My sides coming out of this with shiny blue ribbons.”

“Heaven could just as well.”

Yellow eyes peeked over dark glasses, brows poking upwards. “Azirpahale…”

“We could win, Crowley. My side will protect-”

“Have you seen the Emperor you’re protecting? He’s managed to piss off everyone in this bloody fucking empire. He can’t run a government for shit. He’s terrible to his people. There’s more and more dead under him every day. He’ll destroy more if your side has its way about it. That sound good to you?”

Aziraphale looked down at his little lopsided tree. 

The demon sighed. “Between you and me, I haven’t had to do anything. He made the rope. He’s hanging himself with it, just as well. But by all means, try and thwart my dastardly deeds.” And he gave his fingers a waggle, pushing himself off the tree. “And for go- _someone’s_ \- sake, get yourself a rock and some string. Trees need to be propped while they grow.” 

There was logic in the words. That was the worst of it. 

And not just about awful governments. 

But about trees, too. 

Somehow the second one stung the worst. Especially when the trees, long after Crowley had left and Aziraphale had grudgingly followed his advice, began to grow upwards. 

* * *

There are more flowers. 

And there are more gardens. 

And Aziraphale, Guardian Angel of flowers and gardens and herbs and green life and the occasional wall expects to become better with the both of them. 

He was put on that wall, he surmises reasonably, to care for a garden and a few humans, and since he failed the latter (and was glad the upstairs was still none the wiser as long as they kept ignoring those files) he thinks that at the very least he can excel at the former. 

And so he does his best to become better. 

He _has_ to become better.

He doesn’t want a repeat with Eden’s daisies. He’d almost expected to hear from Gabriel about it, but so far it had gone mostly unnoticed. 

An opportunity arrives sometime just after the fall of Henry VIII at a monastery in Corning. His side had sent him to watch the shift in religion that was beginning to brew in England, and he’d done his best to find a spot where he could watch everything from afar. 

So he walked in, smile bright, holy light shining, and helpfully volunteered to tend the gardens. “Trust me,” he said to the besotted friars, who were melting under the twinge of miracles in the air. “I was practically put on this Earth to aid the plant life.”

“Well,” said one of the Friar’s, smile gooey, “we were in need of a gardener.”

(Theirs had conveniently been given a rare opportunity to go on a pilgrimage just twenty minutes before Aziraphale arrived.)

Azirpahale beamed, and two of the rickety beams in the ceiling obediently fixed themselves right then and there. 

He donned his robes, strode out into the garden, and fixed it with a determined stare. It was a little garden. It sat in the middle of a tiny courtyard. There weren’t many flowers, but herbs sprung from the dirt and swayed curiously towards the new arrival. “Right,” he said, rolling up his sleeves, doing his best to seem as angelic as he could. “We’ll make a beautiful garden out of you, yet!”

He complimented the mint. 

He was kind to the rosemary. 

He delicately watered the thyme. 

“Such a beautiful garden,” he said, cooing and fussing. “Such a lovely, wonderful garden you’re turning out to be!” 

Within a week, the mint had dried, the rosemary had aphids, and the thyme had somehow receded back into the ground. 

“They told me they’d hired a new gardener.” One of the nuns passing through had stopped inside the garden and was surveying it with a sour look. “This is your doing?”

“It’s a… ah. Work in progress.”

The nun hummed, another very sour sound. 

“It’s getting better,” he promised desperately, taking a quick step to the side to hide the tomato vines that were looking a little death-rattly. The chose that moment to shudder. “It’s a… process.”

“And what process is that?” Asked the nun, raising her eyebrow at a few copies that looked like they were crying for help. 

Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Just some more water,” he said. “And plenty of kindness. You know. _Heavens way_ !” He tried to smile and point upwards towards the sky, where Gabriel would no doubt be getting an absolute kick out of _all_ this. 

The nun gave him one more hard look. “I truly doubt,” she said, “that heaven’s way looks this _dead_.” She turned around, her flat shoes slapping the rocks. “Do us all a favor and exorcise your garden.” 

By the following day, the entire garden was little more than a mourners den. 

Aziraphale sat on the grass, pitifully sifting through the dirt and dead leaves. He reached out to try and gently pet one of the stalks. It crumbled. He sighed. “Oh good _Lord_.” 

And that was where Crowley found him. 

“You know gardens are actually supposed to grow things, right Angel?”

Said Angel scowled up at Crowley. The demon was sauntering towards him. His hair was shortened again. He was wearing dark glasses small enough that the gold peeked over. As he walked, he hitched his robes up to his calves and gave some passing priests a wink. 

The priests turned red. 

“ _Crowley_.”

Crowley beamed. “Hello, Aziraphale.” He plopped onto the ground beside him. “Love what you’ve done with the place. Real new-age gothic.” 

Crowley smelled like incense. The heady smell of woodsmoke and peppermint and the touches of leather and coffee and rum that always settled beneath his skin. Aziraphale focused a little too hard on the dead hydrangeas. 

His heart beat out a little, hopeful pitter patter. _Crowley is here_ , it beat. _Crowley is here, Crowley is here, Crowley is here_

And then it thundered. _Crowley is here_!

He whipped his head about, expecting to see the demons skin boiling. “What are you _doing_ here?” He moved to stand up. “You can’t be here! Are you _mental_ -”

Crowley grabbed his arm. “Calm down, Angel. I’m fine.” He pat the ground to demonstrate. There was no hissing flesh. “Turns out, priests don’t bother to consecrate gardens.” He reached out and plucked at a dead leaf. “That’s why I was sent here. Figured I wouldn’t have to put in for a new body if I stayed out of the Holy House.”

“Sent here?”

“Nothing too horrible. Hell is pushing for us to make our quotas what with all the new monasteries popping up about like gophers. Tempting a priest or two into some sinful lusting.” 

“That’s horrid.”

“They come up with the ideas themselves. Just need a little pull in the wrong direction s’all.” He barked a laugh. “You should see Hastur. He was put somewhere in Cornwall. He thinks you seduce can someone with biting.” He smoothed his robes out over his knees, looking over across the garden. “So. You’re the new gardener, then?”

“It seemed the best way to stay undercover,” Azirpahale said, weakly. One of the plants chose that moment for its stem to snap. He coughed and looked away, busying himself with sweeping the dead leaves onto the grass. “Didn’t you come here to stir up some trouble?” 

“Yeah,” Crowley laid back, folding his hands behind his head. “But it’s too easy here. Priests are all pent up sex under a thin human skin. They’re too easy. Figure I’ll just tell Downstairs it took longer than that. Vacation around the area and stir up some more trouble.” And he waggled his fingers towards the clouds lazily. “And you? Decided to give yourself more work, then?” 

“ _Hardly_ .” He sighed. “This was meant to be easy, you know? Me. Helping the garden. But look. It refuses to _cooperate_ .” Another plant snapped in half and _thwped_ to the dirt. “It’s meant to be perfect,” he said. “That’s what gardens are supposed to be. That’s what I’m supposed to make them. And I can’t seem to keep them any which way.” 

Crowley sat up “You know, while I’m here… I can help you some. Just an offer. Part of the arrangement and all. With the plants, I mean. I’m good with them. Getting better, too.” He plucked at one of the dead flowers and spun it around in his fingers.

And for whatever reason - for some strange, awful, terrible reason - that offer struck just behind his lungs, his heart, his ribs, and began to burn. “I’m a _Guardian Angel_ ,” snapped Aziraphale, “I can learn how to take care of some plants.”

“Course you can,” he placated, brows low. “Just offering. Don’t make it into a _thing_ -” 

“Well it is! It’s a _thing_ ,” he snipped. “I don’t _want_ your help. I don’t _need_ your help. I can handle this on my own, Crowley.”

Crowley stood up, smacking dirt off his robes. “Fine, then. I’m sure it’ll be a right _Eden_ when you’re done.”

“Maybe it could be!” The fire hissed and spit. He followed the demons lead and stood up, trying to make himself seem imposing. A little hard when he was speckled in dirt, surrounded by the most pathetically dying garden ever to grace God’s earth. “You’re a demon. You’ll only muddy it all up.” 

Crowley grinned, but it was full of ire and salt. “Oh absolutely,” he said, voice like pond muck. “And, if we’re lucky, it’ll be the muddiest of the muddy-ups to ever muddy up!” 

Crowley stormed one way. Aziraphale stormed the other. 

“Right,” growled the Angel, hefting a bucket of water into his arms. “We’ll show _him_ , won’t we!” 

The flowers somehow drooped ever farther down.

* * *

They’d had fights before. 

Aziraphale often took it as par for the course. Demons and Angels were _meant_ to fight. And in a hundred years or so he’d buy Crowley a drink and pretend like it had never happened. 

Aziraphale thinks little of it until the nuns are clasping his hands between theirs the next day, following him through the monastery halls. “It’s spectacular,” they gushed, winding their resources through their fingers. “Just _spectacular_!”

“I’m sorry-”

“I didn’t trust you.” The Sour Faced nun. She was not as sour faced and not as skeptical, and didn’t look very happy about either. Her thin brows were pulled together, like the decency burned. “But it seems you filled your position well, Gardener.”

When he walked out into the garden, he had to blink to sort through all the color. Beneath a rare Autumn sun, it was a biblical illumination sprouting from the earth. The herbs were full and green, the leaves shaped and pulled towards the sky. Flowers he hadn’t remembered seeing breathed and swelled. 

“Eden,” said a priest as he walked past to his companion, who nodded, clutching his rosary. “The Heavens blessed us with Eden.”

 _Demons_ , Aziraphale thought, as he carefully touched a yellow bud and thought of eyes. _Heaven brought you the Garden. The Demon made it grow._

* * *

Some would call Aziraphale stubborn. 

He preferred hopeful. 

He tried to be good with plants, because he _wanted_ to be good with plants. The gardens hadn’t worked, he decided, because they’d been too big an undertaking. Even Gabriel hadn’t gotten all his job right on the first try. God had given him too large a task at the beginning with Eden, and he’d been aiming too high ever since. So maybe what he had to do was start small. 

Besides. 

If Crowley could learn to grow plants, then so could he. He just needed to be kinder to himself. 

And so sometime when the French Revolution began, he got himself a little orchid and named it Clause. 

Clause sat on his writing desk in his apartment and basked in the sunshine. 

He watered him. Opened the nearest windows. Cast a miracle or two to discourage any cold breezes from billowing through. 

Aziraphale was optimistic. 

And Aziraphale was kind. 

“You look wonderful,” he told Clause. “You look perfect. You’re a gorgeous, perfect, stunning plant.” 

But three days after he'd gotten him, Clause died of natural causes, hunched and wheezing over the desk. 

He threw away the pot and the flower, tossing them into a pile of garbage left by a nearby fishery outside on the street. "Oh bother," he said, walking sadly back towards his bookshop, the weight of another dead plant beginning to squeeze across his ribs. "This couldn't possibly get any worse."

To console himself, he flashed off to France to pick up crepes. It seemed a fitting reward for a terrible sort of night. 

He didn't even make it to the pastry shop before he was caught by a bunch of revolutionaries, who refused to listen to him when he explained _very reasonably_ that it was all a misunderstanding. He wasn’t an aristocrat. He was just a sad, fashion forward owner of a dead houseplant with a craving for French sweets. 

It wasn’t a good enough excuse to keep him out of jail. 

* * *

He’d visited Versailles long ago, before the Revolution had taken hold of the country. Marie Antoinette had been a lovely misguided girl. And the clothes. _Oh_ , the clothes! It was a shame, really, that the system was crumbling. It had to, he knew. Governments that ran on too much money and too much cake were bound to topple on their sides. 

But he’d miss the clothes. 

(And the cake). 

Crowley takes him to get crepes, and they sit across from one another in the back of a smoky room filled with sooty revolutionaries, laughing and drinking and spilling beer on the floor for each of their fallen friends. 

The Angel and the Demon sit behind it all, watching over them. 

Aziraphale’s mouth tastes like clotted cream and rich batter, and he spoons another dollop into his mouth, sitting back, closing his eyes. “Thank you again, my dear,” he says, once he’s gotten his bearings. 

Crowley waves him off. There was a cigarette between his fingers, and the smoke curled upwards into phantom vines. Aziraphale thinks of Gardens. Lush Gardens. Beautiful Gardens. 

He thinks of Monasteries. 

He thinks of Eden. 

And when Crowley peeks a look over his glasses, he thinks of the little yellow flowers he’d held so carefully in his hand. 

“Anything to get you out of trouble, Angel,” he drawls, grinning his sharp smile through the viney smoke. 

The clotted cream began to feel heavy in his stomach. 

“I’d been passing through, anyway. And I’m glad I did.” He smiled; a little wicked and kind; sharp and soft. 

_His mouth is roses_ , Aziraphale thinks, before quickly shutting the thought down. 

Crowley doesn’t notice his companions silence. “Likely you’d be discorporate and dealing with Gabriel by now. I’m too kind to make you endure that torture.”

“Yes,” said Aziraphale. “So kind.”

On the way back from lunch, Crowley stole a rose from a hopeful little street urchin for show, and then handed the girl a coin or two when he thought Aziraphale couldn’t see. 

“For you,” he said, tucking it deftly into the front of the Angel’s stuffy, peasant jacket. He winked. “Try not to let this one die, eh?” 

He decidedly didn't tell Crowley about Clause. 

* * *

Azirpahale, protector of plant-life, walls, and a variety of fruit growing trees, should not be accepting dead flowers. It goes against his entire _thing_. It’s wrong. It’s terrible. It’s a crime against his very being and all he stands for. 

He should definitely not be accepting them from a _demon_. 

And then he’s opening a bookstore and Crowley is there, standing at his register with a fresh cut bundle of peonies and daffodils wrapped in light blue paper, and he’s taking them into his hands like they’re the most precious things ever given. 

“Oh _Crowley_ -”

“Just a little Congrats on finally opening your hoarding den.”

Aziraphale sniffed, snapping his fingers to summon a vase into being. “It’s a bookshop.”

“It’s a hoarding den. You’re a _hoarder_.”

“I’m a seller and a collector, you fiend.” 

“You’re a dragon, is what you are. And this is a dragon's lair. I’m surprised you haven’t started sitting on the books yet. Hatch yourself some baby booklings.” He tilted his head. “Is there even a word for that? Small book? Bit-a-book?”

“ _Novella_.”

“Terrible. Awful. We’ll call them Booklings from now on.”

The two of them go off to drink while Aziraphale argues about the titles of book collections and Crowley continues to rattle off random terms he’s made up. They sit across from one another. At some point, the conversation becomes more heated, and Azirpahale switches from his seat to the couch. 

“You hear me, Angel?”

Aziraphale blinked away, looking away from his mouth. “Sorry?”

“I asked how many books you’ve sold already.” He drew out his arm and swept it dramatically across the expanse of backroom. “This is a _bookshop_ after all.”

The Angel did his best to find an eloquent way to say _none,_ and _nor will I ever_ without sounding too much like a book hoarder. 

* * *

When Crowley leaves, the bundle of flowers in their vase watch. They’ve been cut already, so there’s not much watching to be done. But they watch all the same. 

Watch the demon stop on the sidewalk and take a long, long, long breath. Watch him call a carriage. Watch him stand there, once it’s arrive. Just stand. Breathe. Turn around and look at the store again.

Watch him ride away. 

They watch the Angel, too, who comes around the register and presses his face into the bundles of flowers. 

“Oh,” he says. He stared down at his hand. His face pinkened. He looked sad. Guilty. Strange. “Oh,” he said again, reaching up to touch a flower before stepping away. 

* * *

Azirpahale returned to the flowers a few times. Between reading poetry and browsing through novels he’d never sell, he found himself back and back and back to the vase on the counter. The flowers smelled like fresh hopes and beginnings, and he wanted them to live as long as he could make them. To last as long as that moment could. As if the life of the plants was interwoven through that singular second of hands touching hands, and if the flowers could stay alive for a little longer, than it would mean something. 

But within a week, they were dried and wilted. 

He saved a single one, a little yellow bud, pressed neatly between a first edition of Paradise Lost. 

* * *

Aziraphale, Guardian Angel of Flowers and Plants and all things Viney and Bloomy, is not technically supposed to accept bribes from demons. But the shop down the way just opened and he’d been smelling the pastries for _days_. And so when the demon showed up with a box of sticky, honey-rolls and something covered in frosted rose petals, he’s amenable to any scheme. 

It also helped that Crowley brought him a plant. 

“I found him in the store next to the bakery,” said Crowley, leaning against the counter, watching Aziraphale lick the sugar off his fingers so he could reach out and pull the little plant closer. He still left sticky fingerprints on the pot. 

It was a little plant. A tiny, growing tulip bulb in the soil. It was sprouting out of a few leaves. It was ordinary looking. A closed, green bud. Nothing he’d expect to catch Crowley’s eye. 

“They’re all the rage in Amsterdam,” explained Crowley. 

Ah. So that was it. They were in _fashion_ . And anything _in fashion_ was something Crowley, naturally, had either started as a joke or had to follow along. _They’re interchangeable_ , Crowley had defended once to Aziraphale over some terrible ale. _If I start it, it’s a joke. If I follow it, it’s cool. You see what I mean?_

 _Absolutely not, you horrid hypocrite_ , Aziraphale had answered. 

“Give it a few days.” Crowley shot Aziraphale a smile that was all teeth, and the Angel quickly looked back down at his pastries again. “Swear. It’ll look just as posh as you. Now… about that favor…”

Said favor wasn’t all that bad. A few temptations towards the rise of a new spiritualist movement. One where people sat in a big useless circle and held hands and asked boring, dead people to come back so their loved ones could squawk at them some more as they played with some knick-knack board game. 

He doubted it would catch on. 

When he returned, though, the flower had changed. A sprouting bloom was beginning to shoot its way up through the stalks. He dragged the little pot closer, staring transfixed into the center. 

The little flower was going to be bright yellow. 

It reminded him of eyes. 

Aziraphale reached through and gently stroked a soft petal, barely breathing. It was so delicate. Fragile. And he felt a sudden wave of anxious protection over the little yellow bulb. “Hello there,” he whispered. “I’m Aziraphale. I’m the Guardian Angel of Flowers. You won’t have to worry about a thing.” 

* * *

In the fifth garden, Crowley asks him a question. He despises it. 

“Absolutely _not_.”

“Oh come on, now. It’s not something you’re in short supply for.” The demon looks at him from above his glasses, as if the entire thing is he’s overreacting about something as menial as the weather or a undercooked pasta, and that only drives him more to fury. 

“That isn’t the problem!”

“There shouldn’t be a problem,” reasoned the demon. “Drop of water. Prayer or two. Poof!” He waved his gloved hands around to demonstrate said _poof_. “It’ll take you a minute-”

“And that’s the problem.”

“There isn’t a _problem_ ,” said Crowley. “It’ll just take you a moment.”

Aziraphale lowered his voice. “That’s the problem,” he whispered. “A moment. A _moment_.”

How could Crowley not _see_ the problem. That it would only take a moment; and that was the problem. The _terrible_ problem. The _empty_ problem. The _without_ problem. Aziraphale shook his head, doing his best to vanish the awful, huge words, but they beat against his head and through a heart that wasn’t there. 

That he _swore_ wasn’t there. 

_Buh Buh Buh_ , it drummed

Hammered

Cried

( _without_

_without_

_without_ )

“ _No_ ,” he hissed. “I won’t. I _won’t_.” 

Around their feet, the lilac and queen annes began to sway, watching them both with open, swept faces. People began to look too, twisting their heads over dainty lace to stare at the two odd man-shaped beings in the garden. 

Crowley didn’t notice the Angel beside him flickering through _moment_ and _without_. Or maybe he did, and refused to see it from behind his glasses. 

“Come off it, Angel. Lots of things take a moment. This blessed conversation is taking too many!”

Aziraphale spluttered, gawked, and twisted on his heel, marching off through the roses, whose faces followed him along and watched him stride off. Watched him clench his hands again and again. Watched him do his best to breathe in the scummy pond air to try and forget the strong smells of leather and bergamot. 

“Oh damn,” said the Angel, soft as a nettle. “Oh _damn_.”

The garden watched him.

The garden watched him (cry).

The garden watched him (walk away).

The garden watched him (fall)

(fall)

(Fall deeper and deeper and deeper and deeper in-)

“Oh damn,” said the Protector, one more time, as he walked away from a garden, and ducks, and flowers. 

Walked away from the demon. 

Walked away from something so constantly painful. 

And increasingly present. 

And stubbornly unnamed. 

* * *

The flower Crowley had gotten him was still alive the day after the Holy Water incident. After Aziraphale had slammed the door to his shop and raged about for a time before retreating to his study to read until his eyes burned. 

(He refused to admit that there were other reasons eyes could burn. Bad lighting, he insisted. Terrible, horrible lighting.)

When he came out again, the plant was still there. It stared at him, sitting on the desk by the register. 

He stared back. 

The flower was impossibly soft. Impossibly small. Impossibly fragile. It stood on a thin stalk, reaching towards the ceiling of his little bookshop, and swayed gently every so often. It always looked moments away from breaking. Standing tall and thin and soft in the midst of a lovely, loud, ugly world. 

Aziraphale took in a breath. It shook like a violin string. “I am afraid,” he said. To the flower. To his large, empty shop. To-

To…

“I am very, very afraid,” he said. 

The yellow plant said nothing. 

“It is my job to protect. And I am very, very afraid that I won’t be able to. Not for you.”

The yellow plant said nothing. 

“But I want to be able to,” said Aziraphale. “More than anything in this world, I want you to be safe. And I am so very, very afraid.”

The yellow plant said nothing. 

It didn’t have to. 

Aziraphale watched it some more. He thought of bergamot and leather and _just a moment_ , and then he couldn’t look at the plant any longer. 

“Right,” said the Angel, letting go of the plant, who swayed dangerously without his support. “Then I suppose that’s it, then.” 

Later that afternoon, he could be found knocking on the door of a lovely neighbor. She was a widow who’d moved into one of the brownstones next door. Her name was Mrs. Pennywinkler, and she dabbled in a few things. Chess. Books. Cats. And she’d taken up gardening recently. He’d seen her outside every day, watering the little patch of flowers beside her doorstep. She always showed it off to him proudly. _Look, Mr. Fell! They’re growing inches by the day!_

She had just gotten in from gardening when she answered the door. There was still bits of dirt stuck beneath her fingernails. He swallowed. 

“Mr. Fell!”

“Hello there, dear.” He lifted his hands, the plant between them in its pot. It was still barely a bud. A little more yellow poked out. “I was wondering if you’d at all be interested in adopting this poor little chap.”

Mr. Pennywinkler squinted down at the plant. “It looks just fine to me. You can’t care for it?”

“Unfortunately. I’ll be rather… preoccupied, soon. I’d rather he not get the brunt of my neglect.”

She looked at the plant some more. She poked a leaf. She poked a petal. She poked the soil. “How lovely,” she crooned, finally, smiling a wrinkled smile. “It’s healthy. You’ve been taking good care of it. And you’re sure you wouldn’t rather keep it?”

He shook his head. “No,” he said, staring at a spot just over her head. “I’d rather… I don’t think I’m the right person for the job.”

“But he’s healthy,” she said again. “Really, I think you’re doing a fine job!”

“Yes, but I’m worried I won’t be able to.” He swallowed back the awful tightness in his voice. “I’m very, very worried that I won’t be able to take care of him like he needs to be cared for. It’s for the best.”

It’s not a lie. 

It’s all he can tell himself when she takes it from his hands, the vines inside him wrenching and protesting, and he looks anywhere but the tulip. It’s all he can tell himself when she holds the plant and offers him tea. All he can tell himself when he politely declines and watches her duck away behind her door, the little plant in her hands, and an unnamed word on his tongue. 

It’s not a lie. 

* * *

The Holy Water incident eventually falls behind. He doesn’t bring it up again. Neither does the demon. And he’s glad for it. Especially when Crowley - _bright, wonderful, clever Crowley_ \- sauntered into his home and peered around the room. His smile grew into something malicious. 

“Kill that plant, too, did you?” And he pointed to where the unnamed plant had sat on the counter. 

Aziraphale tried very hard to find a way to say _no_. 

_No, it didn’t. I gave it away. Because I’m terrified. Because I realized how quickly you a plant vanish away from me. Because I’m scared that it will leave. Because it would only take a moment - a_ moment _. - and it would be gone, gone, gone._

_Because I can’t be the reason that it dies._

_Because I-_

_Because I-_

_Because I-_

He stops himself. The unnamed feeling in his chest stays that way; hidden and protected and dark. 

He looked down at the wine bottle. “Yes,” he says, instead. “Couldn’t protect it proper.” 

The demon grins again and falls into his couch, smiling up at Aziraphale brightly. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You’ll be a right plant aficionado soon. I’m sure of it.” 

Azirpahale helps himself to a glass of wine and does his best to forget the plant, the moment, and the way Crowley’s words bury him whole. 

* * *

Crowley had a Garden. 

And the Angel of Gardens and Greenish Plant-Shaped Beings does not believe it. 

He learns about it while they’re strolling past the ducks, who followed along warily. They knew Aziraphale always had the best bread. Then again, Crowley had a penchant for trying to dunk them below the water. It was a never-ending war. No one ever really came out a winner. 

And it was on their stroll, followed by a pack of ducks who were either well fed or half drowned, when Aziraphale found out about the garden. 

The conversation had stemmed from an argument, as most of their conversations did. Aziraphale had been loudly declaring that London was getting too crowded, what with all the new motorists, and how it was completely _terrible_ that Crowley was even thinking about getting a motor-car. 

“They’re loud and smoggy and fast,” he’d complained. 

“That’s the _point_.”

“What’s the point?”

“The loudness and fastness,” Crowley had supplied. “Maybe less the smoggyness, but it’s the price to pay for fashion. And wait until you see her, Angel-”

“ _Her_.”

“The _car_. Even you’ll be smitten. Stuff of poetry, she is.”

Aziraphale threw more bread. Crowley had brought some stale stuff he’d had lying about. It miraculously turned to brioche in the air. “I sorely doubt that.” The ducks honked their agreement. 

That conversation had lead to Aziraphale swearing up and down that he’d never step into a car, Crowley telling him that he would, because then they could get to the new, far away pastry shops even _faster_. 

That turned into a conversation about pastreys. 

Which turned into a conversation about fine wine. 

Which turned into another, louder argument about who drank the most at Charles Dickens’ book launch. 

Which turned into a conversation about cars again. 

Which somehow turned into a conversation about flowers.

“I just think,” said Aziraphale, “that all the new changes are making it very hard for me to do my job.” 

“What? Sitting about reading Faulkner?”

“ _No_ ,” snapped Aziraphale, stretching out an arm to motion about him towards all the little plants spotting their path. “I mean protecting the Gardens, naturally. And it’s getting very hard to do when there’s less and less of them. The city is paving through so many lovely gardens to make way for the Death Boxes-”

“ _Cars_ , Angel.”

“Whatever they’re called, they’re making this city a damn less colorful place.” 

“Since when have you been able to keep a plant alive?”

Aziraphale threw a piece of bread harder than he meant to and it sunk on impact. “It’s a _process_.”

“Long process.”

Aziraphale glared at him. They stopped around the bed of the duck pond, staring at the water. Crowley took a chunk of bread and hit a duck squarely in the beak. It hissed at him. 

“You know,” he said, finally, mulling over his words, sounding at least a little guilty over what he’d said last, “if you’re so intent on protecting a garden or two, why not look over mine?” 

Aziraphale had been about to throw a piece of bread to the ducks when his hand paused mid-throw. 

The ducks in the pond stared at him. Their eyes twitched. 

“Your _what_?”

“My garden.”

“You have a garden?”

“I have a garden.”

“You do _not_ have a Garden.” Said Aziraphale, primly. He tore off a chunk of bread and threw it to the ducks in the pond, who waggled their tails happily and rushed for it. He cast a quick miracle to break the bread into pieces for the rest of the eager flock. “No one in London has Gardens unless their names begin with Queen or Kensington.”

“And Anthony, too,” said Crowley helpfully. “Because I do. I’ve got a garden.”

“Demons don’t have gardens.”

Crowley tilted his head. “Oh? And what are demons supposed to have, then? Torture chambers? Walls of saucy pictures? Stacks and stacks of terrible poetry books?” 

“Well whatever they have, it isn’t a garden.”

“And yet here I am. With a garden.”

Aziraphale rubbed his temples while Crowley watched him smugly. “At the very most,” the Angel finally conceded, “you have a… collection of plants.”

“Last I checked, that was the definition of a garden.” He grinned. “Why don’t you come see it?” And as Aziraphale was about to make some excuse about Books or Poetry or Dear Lord Look at the Time I’ve Got God Business to Attend To, Crowley chimed, “I’ve got a fabulous new whiskey I’ve been saving,” and that pretty much sealed it.

* * *

Aziraphale - who was the Gardener that God Themselves had set on the Earth - did not expect much. Or maybe he hoped not to expect much.

Except there was much. 

A lot of much. 

Because once Crowley had lead him upstairs and unlocked the door and motioned him through into the large, dimly lit, fashionably decorated flat, he suddenly began to feel very, very small. 

“Well,” said Crowley, collapsing onto a nearby chair, using one very lovely handcrafted leather boot to point towards the subject of Aziraphale’s smallness. “There it is. My _collection of plants_.”

It was not a collection of plants. 

It was a garden. 

Crowley had a _garden_. 

Pots overflowed with green ivy. Huge, verdant leaves wove upwards, facing the light that came through the windows. Flowers sighed and swayed. Colors struck everywhere. Reds, pinks, purples, blues - they cut through the dark syncrasy of Crowley’s home with a vicious softness. Small trees dotted the corners while tiny buds shyly decided whether or not it was time to bloom. 

This was a garden. 

And it was not Aziraphale’s. 

“Oh,” said Aziraphale, reaching out to touch a perfect dahlia, feeling the life wind around his fingers. “ _Oh_.”

Crowley crowed a laugh from behind him, clearly not seeing the gravity of the shock on the Angel’s face. “Told you.” He jumped off from his seat, strutting over to grab a watering can. “I’ve been practicing ever since the monastery. Gotta have some hobby while humans are out their tearing the living shit out of each other.”

“ _Oh_ ,” said Aziraphale again, touching a lovely, perfectly watered daisy. 

“So I kept it up. And voila.” He grinned. “I know it’s not filthy pictures of bad poetry, but it’s not half bad, don’t you think?”

It wasn’t half bad. 

It wasn’t half anything. 

It was a whole garden. A whole, lovely garden. A spotless, lovely, incredible garden. 

And it was not Aziraphale’s. 

The vines in his chest tightened, and he thought back to a time when he stood on a Wall and held a sword, and knew very well exactly who he was. He was Aziraphale, protector of Gardens and Flowers and all things Growing and Green. 

And now, standing in this new Eden, he wasn’t all that sure. 

There is life all around him. 

And he did not help it grow. 

“Sansevieria trifasciata.” The words pull him from the pit he’d begun to fall through, and he looked up at Crowley, who was holding a very small, very squat, very humble little plant. 

“Excuse me?”

“Sansevieria trifasciata,” Crowley said again. He’d taken his glasses off while Aziraphale had been questioning his entire existence. Yellow eyes watched him Kindly. “That’s what it’s called. A _snake plant_ if you wrung my arm about it.” He passed the little plant over and Aziraphale took it. “If you’re going to get better at this whole… Guardian of the Garden business, then maybe you need to start smaller. One of the easiest plants to grow, that one is. Not too tetchy. It’ll take all the brutal treatment you throw its way.” 

In his hands, the plant pulsed with life. 

And so did all the others. 

Standing there, in the garden in front of the Demon, he felt life all around him. It was warm and soft and cautious and whole, and it filled the room. And the more he stood there, letting jealousy fade away in place of something new, the more he felt its source. 

He looked at Crowley in the middle of his Garden. 

Crowley, surrounded by life. 

Crowley, surrounded by color. 

Crowley, surrounded by a feeling that, for so long, he’d been unable to name. 

And then there was a word. 

A word he hadn’t given a name to for so long. And in the little garden, it whispered its name proudly for the first time. 

Aziraphale nearly dropped the little plant. Crowley caught it before it could slip to the floor. “Angel - if that’s how you’re starting off-”

“I have to go.”

Crowley blinked. Holding the warm little plant, surrounded by life and care and- and- and- “Angel?”

“I’m sorry.” 

“Angel, hold on-”

He already had his coat in his hands, striding towards the door of the flat. He didn’t look behind him. He couldn’t. Escaping through the door without a word, he walked briskly through the halls, down the stairs, and out into the smoggy London air. 

The sound of new motors was a relief, and he walked alongside the road waiting for their roar to fill his head. 

The feeling in his brain just screamed louder. 

The word, the impossible word, had a million definitions, and it recited itself to him loudly no matter how far he walked away from it. 

It was the word for monasteries. 

It was the word for lopsided trees. 

It was the word for Paris and Crepes and mouths like roses. 

It was the word for yellow eyes. 

“Stop it,” he hissed, holding his head, ignoring the way people stared and whispered while he hurried by. “ _Stop, stop, stop_.”

But it didn’t stop. It demanded to be spelled and memorized and known as well as any of his books. It demanded to be understood. To be felt. To be despised and cherished and hurt and held. 

And despite his best efforts, by the time he’d gotten back to his little bookstore and locked the door tight, the Word had a name. 

And it was as alive as any of the plants in Crowley’s garden. 

“No,” he told the empty shop stubbornly. “I don’t. I cant. I won’t.”

* * *

The next day, a little plant was on his doorstep. 

The Now-Named feeling sitting on his chest wound tighter. _Silly Angel_ , it seemed to whisper as he picked up the plant and put it on his desk with trembling fingers. _You do, you can, you will_. 

* * *

He gave that plant a good home in one of the pastry shops he liked. 

The girl behind the counter loved plants, and she took it happily. 

“It’s easy to care for,” he said, watching her place the little plant atop the counter. “And far too easy to love.”

* * *

There used to be a garden.

It must have been right outside the church. Just through the church and out the back in the center courtyard. He can feel the life that was beneath it, just as he can feel the life that was of a lot of other things. Plants. Books. 

People. 

The church is in ruins. The city is in ruins. Aziraphale stands in the ruins of the city and the church, and knows that there used to be a garden there. He has to know those sorts of things. He’s Aziraphale; protector of plants and green life and all things that sprout out of the rubble. 

Looking out at said rubble, he wishes he were the protector of more. 

All he knows is there used to be a garden. 

“I sometimes forget…” There’s a demon at his elbow. His voice is strung tight. His mouth is, too. A tight line, trying to hide whatever he’s really feeling. What his shaking hands, stuffed in his pockets, betray. “I sometimes forget how much they can do. Whole big world. Tiny lives. How much they can do with those tiny lives and big worlds.” 

“Yes,” says Aziraphale, something like weeds twisting in his throat. “So do I.” 

It is quiet. Despite the noise of sirens and the still present ringing of a church collapsing through his bones and skin, it’s quiet. And he stands in the quiet, looking over the destruction. It’s all he can do. 

There used to be a garden. 

There used to be many things. 

The rubble crunches, glass crunching, when Crowley shifts, looking over the destruction at his side. 

Aziraphale only lets himself think for a moment that it should be an odd thing to see Crowley like this. That it should be a very odd thing to see a demon standing quietly at an angel’s side, looking over a city in ruins. 

He wants to blame him, in a way. It would be easy to blame him. Destruction at their feet. A soldier of hell. A demon. 

A demon who saved him, saved his books, and will deny saving anything else, even though the Angel is sure that there are a few stray miracles across the city he did not cast. 

It should be strange to see a demon so helplessly forlorn. 

Except it isn’t. 

Because this is Crowley. 

Crowley who loves earth and hates war and denies his own kindnesses even while they’re still close by like breadcrumbs. 

Crowley, who is so alone, even in a city filled with people and smoke. 

Brave Crowley. 

Soft Crowley. 

Crowley, who brings him flowers and vases and fixes gardens. 

This is Crowley. And Aziraphale is not surprised. 

He wants to say _I’m sorry._

He wants to say. _I’m so sorry I’m letting you live in a world like this, when you deserve so much better. I’m sorry I can’t_ make things _better. I’m sorry you’ve had to see so many Gardens fall behind you_. 

He is the guardian angel of life and flowers. And he cannot keep it safe long enough to hold onto plants or gardens or people or scared, kind demons with stained-glass eyes. 

And so the Guardian of Gardens and Walls (who stands in the ashes of both), swallows his words and just says, “I tried.”

Crowley doesn’t look his way, but he does move closer, and it’s a comfort. “There will be more gardens,” he says, softly. “There will be more walls. There’ll be more humans. There always are, angel.” His thin hands shake, and he shoves them deeper into his pockets. “Doesn’t mean you didn’t do your best. You always do.” 

Aziraphale wraps his hand tighter around the books to keep him from taking Crowley’s. 

* * *

The year Aziraphale finally gives Crowley holy water is the year that he kills exactly three plants. Because he is the guardian of all things growing and flowering, and he is desperate (absolutely _desperate_ ) to prove that he can protect one good thing. 

First it was a little daisy he’d named Emily. “You’re going to be wonderful,” he told her kindly. 

She’d gone after he’d forgotten to water her. 

Then there’d been a purple hyacinth he’d fondly named William. He’d placed Will on top of a bookshelf where it got the best light. “This will be the perfect place,” he encouraged, beaming, setting the little plant in a puddle of warm sun. “You’re sure to like it here!” 

William overheated, and within a week had shriveled up onto the dirt like a hunted rug. 

The final flower had been a small, wonderful fern with perfectly green leaves. Aziraphale had named it Bilbo. “Please,” he said to Bilbo, hopefully, giving him a spot of honor beside his armchair. “Please know that I’m trying my best here. I expect you to do the same.”

Bilbo didn’t last the night. Something about improper pH levels in the soil, whatever that meant. 

He thinks about those three plants as he holds a thermos of holy water. His hands tremble. The car smells like cinnamon and leather and bergamot. Crowley is watching him; transfixed and wholly. 

He does his best not to touch the demons hand when he passes the thermos to him, and he pulls away quickly before their fingers can slide over one anothers. If they had, he was sure he might have snatched the thermos back. Grabbed the demons hands in his own. Plead and cried and demanded. 

Instead, he curled his fingers against his knees and stared through the windshield into the wobbly rain. 

“Maybe…” Crowley’s voice is soft as lambs-ear when he finally speaks again. “Maybe we can go for a picnic.” Hope blooms under his tongue. Aziraphale can hear it - lilies and freesias and daisies. “Come on. I can give you a lift,” says Crowley, flowers and all their meanings growing around him. “Anywhere you want to go.”

Aziraphale wants to say _as long as you’re there_ , but all he can do instead is think of the three dead plants sitting in his little shop. Three little dead plants, and the angel who was created and placed on a wall to protect them. 

Who wanted to protect. 

Who failed. 

“You go to fast for me, Crowley,” he says. 

(He won’t own a plant for a long time after that.

He refuses to watch anything fall away.) 

* * *

The world is going to end. 

That’s the news they learn together - that the world is going to end. And despite the fact that he’s an Angel is he’s meant to fight _for_ the Angels, Aziraphale isn’t too keen on letting the world just vanish away. 

He tries his best to be a good Angel. And a good Angel would _want_ the end of the world to be upon them. 

It helps, then, that Crowley is very well aware of the things he _does_ care about, and makes sure to list them while they stand in the middle of the bookstore. Aziraphale’s arms were loaded with a new stock of poetry that he’d managed to buy off a collector, and he was putting them away while doing his best to ignore the demon. 

If only the demon wasn’t making so many good points. 

“You know what’ll be gone when the world goes kaput, Angel?” 

“No. But I’m sure you’ll tell me, you fiend.” 

Crowley leaned on a shelf, crossing his arms. He leaned closer, as if sharing a secret. _“Cake_.” 

“Angel’s shouldn’t care about cake,” he huffed, shoving another book into place. 

“You’re right. Angel’s shouldn’t. But you do. And isn’t that just the most terrible little problem?” 

“I’m refusing to listen to you.” 

“And of course there’s sushi. All that lovely sushi and all its lovely little sauces. You think Gabriel is supplying those at the Armageddon After Party? No - he’ll be handing out Angelic Soulcycle cards instead.”

“What in _heavens name_ is soul-cycle.” 

“Oh, Angel. You’d absolutely love it. I came up with that one, you know. Thought the name was very on-brand.” He cackled, plucking a book off Aziraphale’s stack and shoving it into any old place he could find. Aziraphale scoured. “It’s where a lot of people get up early in the morning and go to a small room that plays too loud pop-music-”

“Good Lord.”

“Oh wait. You haven’t heard the best part, yet!” Crowley clapped his hands together, beaming. “Then all those people get onto _bikes_ . Stable bikes! And they pretend to ride but they don’t go _anywhere_. And they shout affirmations about love and self care, and then afterwords they go out and drink fruit smoothies.”

Aziraphale felt his stomach drop just a little. “And you think that’s what heaven will do…?”

“I think that if Gabriel gets his grubby little hands on a Heavenly Gold Star it’s a possibility.” He reached for another book, leaning closer to Aziraphale. The Angel swallowed, staring ahead, pretending that he wasn’t breathing in deeper to catch the scent of cologne. 

“There wouldn’t be anymore books, either.” 

The words wake him from his reverie, and Aziraphle blinks at the sight of a book being held in front of his face. Crowley had plucked it off the shelf, and was holding it carefully. “No more books. No more poetry. No more plays or essays or old annotations.”

The vines in his chest were back. 

It was odd, really. Always very odd. Despite his teasing and mockery and temptations, Crowley still understood. Holding the book so carefully with all the respect and reverence that Aziraphale believed it deserved. “You’d hate to lose all your books,” said Crowley. And when he said it, there was heartbreaking honesty there. 

“Yes,” said Aziraphale, looking away to continue his shelving. “I would, rather.” He swallowed. “But I can’t just… if heaven _insisted_ …” 

Crowley shelved the book, leaning back against the shelf, watching him work. “Oh come on,” he said. “Cake. Sushi. Books. _Plants_ , even. I know how you like those-”

“Crowley.”

“Isn’t there one thing out there? One thing you’d never want to give up?”

Aziraphale looked back at yellow eyes. At red hair. At his rose mouth. At a kind, hopeful, brave demon.

“No” he said, looking away to finish his shelving. “Nothing at all.”

* * *

Aziraphale, protector of Plant Life and all things Green and Growing, does agree eventually. He blames it on the Sound of Music. And Soul Cycle. 

Especially after Crowley showed him what the people _wore_ to Soul Cycle. 

“These are called _LuLu Lemon_.”

“Oh help me Lord above, no.” 

And so he finally agrees. 

On one condition. 

“Absolutely not.”

“Come on, Crowley! It’ll be _fun_!”

“It won’t be fun. It’ll be humiliating. You’ll fail before you’ve even begun.”

“This is what I was put on Earth to do.”

“Tell that to the massacre of plant-life I’ve seen paraded from this door.”

“It isn’t that bad, Crowley.”

“It is,” said Crowley. “It is, and you know it.”

“I think it makes the most sense,” said Aziraphale, “if I were to play the Gardener. I am the Guardian Angel of Plants, after all.” 

Crowley was vehemently against the idea from the start. It began right after Crowley had shown him how to operate something called Google Maps so they could see where the Antichrist was going to end up. And from the Satellite ( _you’re sure that this isn’t just God showing us what they see - Angel, for the last time, it’s a machine_ ) they could see the house, the long driveway, the parked cars, and the Gardens. 

And Aziraphale had found his place. 

“I’m the Guardian of Gardens. It’s the perfect role to play!”

“Except,” argued Crowley, “you’re _rubbish_ at it!”

Aziraphale pouted. “I’m getting _better_.”

“You’re _not_.”

“Because you won’t give me a chance-”

“Because you’d kill my plants. And they’re already on thin fucking ice as it is, Angel.” He pushed his glasses up, rubbing his face. “What happened to the last plant you owned. Small ficus, was it?”

Aziraphale wound his fingers together, observing his newly done manicure with a little too much interest. “It was just some overwatering. That’s all.” 

“Overwatering. A _ficus_ . One of the hardest plants to _overwater_.”

“It’s a process,” Aziraphale snapped. 

Crowley groaned. “Angel. I have been raising plants up longer than you have. And I can tell you right now that Gardens aren’t easy things. And I’m not going to be waltzing through seducing nuns to help save you from bad pH levels or aphids.”

“I can _handle_ this, Crowley. 

* * *

He cannot. 

By the second day with the Dowling’s Garden, most of the plants had begun to unionize and decided as a collective whole that either all of them lived, or all of them died. 

“They staff is getting suspicious,” said Crowley, looking over the garden, pursing purple lips. “You know that, right. That you’ve done the _opposite_ of what we needed.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that,” he hissed back.

The demon sighed. He patrolled the garden up and down. He cupped a flower or two in his hands. He hummed. He clicked his tongue. “Alright, Guardian of Gardens. Let’s fix this place up, before you doom the world with wilted petunias.” 

* * *

The time at the Dowling’s is a wonderful one. 

And Aziraphale despises it. 

The garden is not his. They tell the Dowling’s it is, but it’s not. And only he knows. 

During the day, he putters around. He pretends to take care of the garden. 

At night, Crowley brings Aziraphale around and shows him the right ways to water. The best places to plant flowers so their roots have room to breathe. He kneels as if consecrating the ground and brings Aziraphale down with him. 

Their knees are stained green, and Aziraphale’s manicure is muddied. The flowers are stained glass. The dirt is scripture. The stars above their heads are thuribles. The air is incense and the night is holy. 

And Crowley stays beside him. They make Holy Communion together with weeds and buds and bulbs. 

“There,” says Crowley, sitting back. His smile is kind and wonderful. “Usually I have to shout at them a lot more. Spew some threats. Figured I’ll count your presence as a Foiling, Angel.” He laughed, and it was as alive as the garden in front of them. “What do you think about that, oh Guardian of the Garden.”

 _I think_ , thought Aziraphale, digging his fingers into the dirt, _that I am in love with you_. 

* * *

Leaving the Dowling’s with the discovery of another Antichrist does nothing to tamper the feeling down. 

In the drifting closeness of a dying world, it becomes worse.

“We’ll find the antichrist together,” says Crowley. 

_I love you_ , thinks Aziraphale. 

“No more magic, _please_ \- it’s humiliating!” says Crowley. 

_I love you_ , thinks Aziraphale. 

“We’ve only got so much time,” says Crowley. 

_I love you_ , thinks Aziraphale. _I want all the time. And I love you, I love you, I love you_. 

* * *

The Guardian of Gardens and Temporary Stopper of Apocalypses is in love with a demon. 

And he shouldn’t be.

The only thing that makes it easier is the fact that he’s alone. 

In the wake of an ending world, he is alone in his love. And that makes it easier. That makes it bearable. That makes it possible to look at Crowley and think _I love you, and I care about you, and I will make sure you come out of this alive, no matter what_. It makes it possible, because he doesn’t have to worry about Crowley hoping, too. 

Because when Crowley hopes, he does so hugely. He hopes enough for the world. And he hopes enough to create tragedy enough for the both of them. 

But Crowley-

(Brave Crowley)

(Gardener Crowley)

(His Crowley)

-doesn’t. 

And that makes it bearable. 

* * *

.  
  
.

.

Until it doesn’t. 

.  
  
.

.

* * *

The world hadn’t ended yet. 

But in the seventh garden, it may as well have. 

That’s what Aziraphale thinks, as he stands on a gazebo inside St. James Park. They’re surrounded by a garden. Lilies, begonias, and open faced daisies speckled the shady ground, watching the Angel and the Demon face one another in between. 

The Angel in the Garden doesn’t know what to do. 

And then Crowley decides to make it all the harder.

“We can run away together.” 

It’s a plea he doesn’t expect, and Aziraphale takes a step back. 

Crowley moved closer. He shoved his glasses up to sit on his hairline. Yellow, stained glass, tulip eyes watched Aziraphale, pleading. “Come on,” he said. “Come _on_.” He raised his hands, palms lifted. “You can’t tell me-”

“ _Crowley_.”

“You can’t _tell_ me you don’t…” He reached up and scrubbed his face. “After all this time… you can’t tell me that you don’t-”

It was easier before. When he thought he was the only one. 

And then he realizes-

And then he knows-

Aziraphale always knew that Crowley was kind. He just didn’t know demon’s could love. 

Then again, there had been monasteries. There had been duck ponds. There had been dinners in Paris, and kind words and bouquets of flowers. There had been hope and joy and careful words. 

There had been gardens. 

And they had stood in all of them. 

Aziraphale didn’t know demons could love. 

And he’s so devastated to know that he’s wrong. 

“Crowley…” His throat was tight. The vines in his chest wound again and again. “Please don’t. Don’t do this.”

“You can’t tell me you don’t feel _something_ . All these years. All these- you can’t tell me that you and I aren’t…” And he stretched out his arms, as if the universe could flow between his fingers and hook them both together. “Because I have. I _have_ . Since the monastery. And the little plants I used to bring around. The _Dowling’s_ for Go-Sat- _Someone's_ sake! Keeping plants alive so you could-” He scrubbed his face. “I have. I _have_ . Please tell me you do, too. _Please_.” 

His Crowley. 

His lovely, wonderful Crowley, who watched him, and waited, and trembled with bravery. 

“No,” said Aziraphale. “Crowley, _no_.” 

“Please, Angel,” the demon hissed. “Please tell me you feel something, too.” 

_No, no, no_.

“Angel, _please_.” 

“I was put here,” said Aziraphale, “because I was meant to guard a perfect garden-.” 

“Aziraphale-”

“I was supposed to protect humans,” he ground between his teeth. “Humans and plants and animals and everything inside of the wall-”

“Aziraphale. I know you. I know you _feel the same_ . I _know_ -”

“I am the Guardian of the Wall. And I am meant to protect it from Demons.” 

The arms fell, slowly, until they were back at his sides. 

They stood there, separated by nothing. 

Finally; “Aziraphale.” Crowley sounded broken. Shattered. Torn to bits and scattered like salt in the dirt. “Aziraphale. I _love_ you.” 

The world could have ended right then. Right then, with Aziraphale wanting to grab Crowley and hold him tight. With Aziraphale wanting to burn down every garden and toss the ashes. With Aziraphale, feeling himself drowning away when reality took hold. 

“I can’t,” said Aziraphale, quietly. “I can’t watch anything else fall.” 

It was something of a tragedy to watch the glasses pulled down over those golden eyes. To watch Crowley straighten himself back out and into his usual stance. “Right,” he said, a tick in his jaw. “Of course. Of _course_.”

“Crowley, Please. Understand-”

“Hate for you to neglect your job, Angel.” He turned around and walked down the steps, leaving behind an Angel and a silent garden. 

* * *

That night, for the first time in some time, Aziraphale looked upwards towards the little ceiling of his bookshop and Questioned. 

"Why couldn’t I have been good at one of the things you asked of me,” he asks. His eyes welled and burned. “You put me on that wall. You put me on the wall and you told me to protect what was inside. And I've tried. And I've failed. Why do you keep making me fail?"

No answer.

"Why couldn’t I have been good at protecting the trees? Or the flowers. I’d even take the weeds, if that’s all I could manage.”

No answer.

“I drown daisies." He sank against a bookshelf, closing his eyes. “I kill begonias. I strangle trees. Every perfect plant, I destroy. And then, like some Dickensian tragedy, a Demon loves me. And I cannot love him back. Where does this fit into the plan? Where does breaking me fit into your plan?"

He’ll apologize profusely for his blasphemy later. But until then, all he can do is think of dying plants and fiery hair. Of wilted leaves and the smell of leather and caramel and coffee. Of tragedies and hurt and care. 

Of Love left broken. 

* * *

The battle ended quickly enough. After fire, a burnt bookshop, and Satan himself, the battle was over fast enough. 

But Azirpahale knows that the battle isn’t over. 

“They’ll be coming for us,” said Crowley. They were in his flat, drinking. It was all they could do as they waited for the worst of the war to come for them. “You know that, right? That they’re coming for us.”

“... I know.” 

The plants were still everywhere. Alive and warm and so very Crowley, they watched the Angel and the Demon sitting across from one another. And the Angel watched them back. Watched them, and their gardener. 

The Guardian of all things the Garden watched the gardener before him. 

The Gardener who loved him.

Who he loved too deeply for words. 

There are only three reasons for inventions. 

It isn’t a well known truth, but it’s one that is true nonetheless. 

Most people say necessity. 

Some people will say revenge. 

Those people are technically correct. They’re also incredibly uninventive. Because out of all the reasons for any good idea, there is one that reigns true above them all. 

And it is this reason that overcame Aziraphale while he watched Crowley. His Crowley. His brave Crowley. His kind Crowley. His loved and adored Crowley. 

He set aside his wine glass. “My dear,” he said, catching the attention of the demon, who raised sorrowful eyes. “I think… I think I have an idea.”

“Angel…?”

“We’re on our side, Crowley. And I’m fighting for our side.” 

_I love you_ , he means. _I love you, I love you, I love you_. 

“They will be coming for us. But this won’t be where we end.”

* * *

  
  
  


(and it wasn’t) 

  
  
  


* * *

The world is saved because of a boy, a dog, an angel, and a demon. 

And love.

Love that stands still, resting tragically between them. Untouched and unrecognized. 

And the demon tries to begin again as if nothing had changed, ignoring that Love and pretending like it hadn’t been. Bursting into the bookshop the day after they’ve averted heaven and hell and settled into a life on Earth. 

“Come along, Angel,” says the demon who loves him (who loves him, who _loves_ him, who _Loves_ him). “Let me treat you to lunch.” 

And Aziraphale follows along, pretending he can’t see how much it hurts. And pretending he can’t feel his own. 

“So,” says Crowley, as they sit across from one another in a new Korean restaurant that opened down the way. His glasses were on, and Aziraphale couldn’t see his eyes. But he could tell he was trying to look anywhere else. “What’s life going to hold for you now that you’re out of a job.”

Aziraphale pushed rice around his plate, barely eating. Being with him should have been the same. But it wasn’t. 

The wall between them was a palpable one, built bring by brick with the call; _I love you_ , and the answer; _I can’t_. 

“Who says I’m out of a job. Humanity still needs some looking after-”

“No, Aziraphale. Your whole gig. Guardian of the Garden or whatever.” He waved a hand around, flicking rice off the table with his free fingers. “You don’t have to worry about it anymore. No more gardening. No more dead plants. No more… trying to grow things that won’t grow. Must be sort of nice, mustn’t it?”

Aziraphale swallowed, nodded, and looked away, beckoning for the check. 

Later, they’ll stand outside the bookshop in front of the Bentley. 

An Angel who pretends he doesn’t love, and a demon who pretends he never did. 

“Well then,” says the Demon who Loves. “I’ll be seeing you, then?”

“Yes,” says the Angel. “Definitely. Be seeing you, I mean.”

* * *

And that was the last time for a long time. 

Until they got an invitation. 

* * *

Apparently, the end of the world being averted prompted a lot of celebration by those who knew about it. And that included the Them, the Antichrist, a witch, her bumbling boyfriend, and a few very confused parents who _didn’t_ know about the end of the world, but were happy enough to provide lemonade. 

And that was how Crowley and Aziraphale found each other again. In the backyard of an antichrist, being served lemonade. 

“So…” Crowley had shown up thirty minutes after he did. Fashionably late, he called it. And now he stood next to Aziraphale, trying to look anywhere but the Angel, and doing his best to look cool about it. “What have you been doing since…”

“Since the end of the world…?” It was the best be could manage. _Since you told me you loved me and I broke your heart_ was a little too on the nose. 

Crowley hummed into his lemonade. 

“Oh, you know,” said Aziraphale. _You love me_ , he thought. _You love me, you love me, you love me, you love me, and you don’t know_ \- “nothing much. Spot of cleaning. Reading.” 

From across the yard, Newt was showing the Them how to properly shoot a nerf gun, but ended up shooting himself in the eye. 

Adam’s mother was bringing out a tray of cheese that the Angel hadn’t yet seen. Adam’s father was grilling, and passing all the burnt ends to Dog. There were more burnt pieces than he could understand. 

Adam ran over from Newt’s failed demonstration to greet them, grinning, holding a hunk of cheese in one hand. 

“Hullo you two! I’m glad you could come!”

“Adam!” Aziraphale brightened, doing his best to pretend like he wasn’t begging for any excuse away. “How lovely to see you!”

“Lovely to see everything, really. End of the world and all-”

“Oh, naturally.”

Crowley snorted. “Bit bright for my liking. Still think we could do with more hellfire.”

Aziraphale forgot that they were two very awkward beings enough to elbow him. 

“We’re very glad to be here, Adam. Thank you.” 

Anathema came out of the kitchen then, a potholder on one hand, and shouted, “Adam, mind helping me with the cake?”

Before Adam could move, Aziraphale was already pushing his lemonade glass into Crowley’s hand. The Demon’s phone dropped to the grass, and he squawked. 

“Sorry, my dear. Hold that, won’t you?” And he was stalking past Adam, away from Crowley, and towards the Young’s kitchen, glad for any respite away, leaving Crowley behind with the all consuming echo chamber;

_I love you_

_I can’t_

_I love you_

_I can’t_

_I can’t_

_I can’t_. 

* * *

The kitchen was small and warm and smelled like vanilla. The windows of the little home were steamed from the oven, and the stove was flecked with condensation. Aziraphale stood at the oven door, holding it open while Anathema poked at the cake with a fork, drawing back with pursed lips. 

“Shouldn’t be much longer.” She put the fork down, brushing her hands off on her jeans. Aziraphale passed her a rag, and she thanked him with a hum. The sink was still filled with dishes, and she wandered over to them. 

He followed. “I can help with that, dear.”

“You don’t have to-”

“I insist.” His jacket was already off, hung neatly on the back of a chair, his sleeves rolled to the elbow. “Here. Pass me the sponge.” 

For a time, they stood in comfortable silence. The rush of water and squeak of soap the only sounds filling up the little, warm, cakey space. 

Until Anathema, witch that she was, turned towards him and asked, “so why are you and the Demon not speaking?” 

He dropped the spatula he’d been cleaning. Soapy batter sprang up and hit his vest. “Oh _damn_.” She passed him a towel and he blotted at it, mumbling little curses beneath his breath. 

“So,” she said, watching him work. “Why are you?”

“Who says we’re not.”

“No one.” She shrugged, touching her temple with a tap or two of a blue fingernail. “It’s a guess.” 

“A guess?”

“A well timed look, then.” She tilted her head. “Did something happen?” She leaned closer, like a haggard cop and whispered “Did he hit another biker?”

“What! _No_. Goodness, no. Nothing’s happened.” He picked up the spatula again, running it under the water and scrubbing away at it with the sponge. She continued to watch him. “It’s nothing much to worry about. We’ve had fights before-”

“So this is a fight.”

“ _No_.”

“Then what is it.”

He put the spatula to the side, grabbing the mixing bowl with slippery fingers, attacking it with a little too much vigor. “Don’t you have anything else you could be asking.”

She shrugged again, tossing a few stray curls over her shoulder. In the midday light coming through the fogged windows, her hair glowed honey. Magic came off her in breathy waves. The kitchen began to feel too small. “It doesn’t work like that. When two celestials come through with powerful issues, it clogs up the entire world.” She leaned back her head, sighing. “So whatever is going on between you two - it’s like the worst sinus block I’ve ever had. So. Is anything happening? Any other worlds need saving?”

“It’s nothing… too pressing.” 

Anathema raised her chin. 

Aziraphale stared down at the soapy water. 

He glanced up. 

Outside the window, Crowley had given up watching Mr. Young fail and was bored enough to begin facilitating some sort of game with the Them. He coached them around with mock fury, tossing his arms this way and that. The children giggled and sprinted about, evading his wicked grasp. 

Aziraphale looked back down. 

“Crowley said he loved me.”

Silence. 

Anathema pushed her hip off the counter. “He said that?”

“In so many words.”

“… when?”

“Before the world ended.” 

“And that’s good,” she tried, slowly. “Because… you love him, too.”

He swallowed, scrubbing at a very secure bit of batter on the bowl. 

“Because you love him, too,” she tried again, pressing. “You can’t say you don’t. I feel it. I _felt_ it.”

“I… do.”

“But?”

“But.”

“But _what_.” She moved closer, squinting through the vanilla haze of the kitchen, watching him carefully. He put the bowl to the side and picked up a plate. The water coming from the sink was hotter, and the steam drifted upwards like vines, billowing upwards. 

He began slowly, doing his best to focus on the fog and the vanilla and ignore the witch in the kitchen and the demon with the children outside “When the world was created, I was put on top of a wall. I had a sword.” He reached down for a knife in the sink. It still had bubbles on it, and it was covered in the brie Mrs. Young had cut. He brandished the cheesy knife pathetically. “I was told to watch over a few humans and the garden inside the wall.”

“And the humans-”

“Adam and Eve. Yes.” He turned the cheesy, bubbly knife over in his hands. “And I failed that rather spectacularly.”

“The snake?”

“Crowley. Yes.” 

Her eyebrows rose. “Crowley.”

“I don’t think he much knew exactly what he was doing. I rather think he would have done it if he had known, though. He’s always loved causing a spot of trouble. And he’d justify it brilliantly, too. Say something like _without that apple there’d be no sushi or cake, so how bad could an apple or two be_. Anyway, he gave them the apple, and I failed that.” He turned the water hotter and scrubbed the knife clean. He set it to the side. “And I thought I could at least succeed at one of my jobs, since I’d failed the first one…”

“The second one being-”

“The _Garden_ , dear.”

She made a soft _oh_ noise, nodding. “And that didn’t work out, either?”

“It turns out…” he laughed bitterly, picking up a spoon, washing it with a few stray miracles, “I am _awful_ with plants.” 

“Really…” 

“And I tried. I did try.” 

“I don’t doubt it.” 

“But ever since the beginning.” He was on the last dish, and he kept it under the water a time, watching the bubbles. “First it was a garden. And then a few plants. And then a monastery. Then there was Clause-”

“Clause?”

“I named the poor chaps. A terrible idea, really. Thought it might… boost their morale. Keep them happy enough to live a little longer. But.” He set the plate to the side on the drying rack and shut the water off. “I was put here to protect a Garden inside a wall. Protect some humans. Keep things tip-top. And I haven’t been able to do that in some time.” He smiled sadly up towards her. “I have been loving him for a long time. But I have also been failing at my jobs. And if I can’t protect some plants…” he looked out the window again at Crowley. 

Crowley who was playing with children. 

Crowley, who noticed him. 

Crowley, who waved carefully. Aziraphale looked back down into the empty sink. 

The oven _dinged_ , and he watched Anathema open the oven, ducking her arms in, pulling out a golden cave on a foil rack. She set it on the table, giving the side a poke. “Honey cake,” she explained. “The Young’s tried mine a few weeks ago and demanded I bake it again for this.” It smelled like cardamon and clove. 

Adam decided that was the moment to spring into the kitchen, the door slamming against the wall. Aziraphale jumped. Anathema said something that sounded very unkind in Spanish. “I just took the cake out. You want me to drop it?”

“Sorry!” He was breathless. His hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. He was grinning. “Crowley’s gonna have us do a water fight. Wanted to grab my swim shorts.” He stopped mid-sprint, turning towards Aziraphale. “What’s wrong with you?”

Aziraphale truly hated having so many empaths in the same place. 

Anathema swooped in to save him. “I’ve got it handled, Adam. It’s grownup issues.”

The boy groaned. “Those are the worst kind. I swear. Totally dull.” 

Azirpahale bristled. “It is _agonizing_ and _horrible_.”

“So are sunburns and beestings, but we all get through those, don’t we,” snarked the boy. “Grownups always say that they’ve got exclusive issues. Except they’re not. They never are.”

“Young man, I’ll have you know-”

Adam rolled his eyes alarmingly far back in his head and sprinted up the stairs two at a time to find his swimmers. 

Anathema laughed, looking through one of the drawers for a knife. “He’ll have issues like yours one day, and we won’t be there to help him. See how that feels.” She turned the cake on the table back and forth, deciding on the best strategy for cutting. “But back to your problem - you’re in love.”

“Right.” It was exhilarating to hear out loud, and he tamped the feeling down. 

“You’re in love, and you can’t be.”

“ _Right_.”

“Because you’re afraid that you’re going to fail at your job?” She finally decided on the perfect spot and cut into the cake. A slice fell away, spongey and thick and marbled with honey. She put it onto one of the little paper plates on the table and passed it to him. “Try it. Might help.”

“Nothing will help,” he grumbled, even as he accepted a form and decided that, while it wasn’t a fix, the cake was enough to at least make him feel a little better. 

She smiled, moving the cake around the cut another slice, and then another. “So is this your plan? To just continue on like this?”

“It has to be. I’m the Guardian of the Garden. And if I can’t manage to do that right, then how can I be expected to protect Crowley-”

“Oh! Is that really _all it is?_ ” Adam was back, wearing a STYX t-shirt and a pair of shark swim trunks. He had a water pistol in his hand. “Mr. Aziraphale. I’m sorry to say it, but that might actually be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard!”

Azirpahale very nearly choked on a bite of cake. “Pardon?”

“It’s only that it doesn’t make sense.” Adam moved past to the sink, running the water cold and filling the pistol. “I mean… I’m the antichrist of _Earth_. I’m not the Antichrist of one very specific little town or anything like that.”

“It’s not the same.”

“It _is_ the same,” he argued, capping the pistol and turning off the water. “And besides, at the end of the day it doesn’t matter at _all_ because there’s no such thing as the Guardian of the Garden.”

“There is,” insisted Azirpahale, dropping the plate of cake onto the counter. “There is, because I am _that_.”

“You’re not. You can’t be. There’s no such thing. You’re Aziraphale, and you guarded the _wall_.” 

“And what was inside it,” he explained clearly, waving his hand. “We were all given something. And I was given the job-”

“And she told you that, did she? That you were guarding some flowers inside a wall.”

Aziraphle opened his mouth. And then he shut it. “I mean…” he shook his head, tripping over the words as they got caught between his teeth. “You weren’t there. You can’t _know_. You can’t know what it was like - standing on the wall, being told to protect something inside it-”

“Course I can’t,” said Adam. “But I’ve got a brain, hanven’t I? I can figure out that much.” 

Aziraphale stuttered between offense and shock. He didn’t have time to return the barb before Adam was rolling his eyes, cocking the water pistol, and explaining, “Mr. Aziraphale, there was more than plants in that garden.” 

And he ran out the door into the waning sun, leaving behind a shocked angel, a smiling witch, and a cut cake.

* * *

The water fight had begun in earnest in the yard. 

The Them had broken up into factions. Pepper had grabbed Adam the first chance she’d gotten and was screaming something about the Patriarchy while he stood behind her, ducking from Brian, who had somehow stolen Wensleydale’s water pistol and was shouting “RAMBO RAMBO RAMBO” as he ran through the sprinkler towards the antichrist. 

Crowley stood on the sidelines, shouting at both sides. 

_Never take teams_ , he’d said once. _Never know which side is gonna win. And that’s the one you’ve got to join._

Aziraphale had called him cowardly. 

_No_ , he’d said, winking. _That’s how you survive_. 

But he’d been right, hadn’t he. Because he’d chosen their side. He’d chosen their side, and they’d won.

Or maybe Aziraphale had been right, and he’d chosen his side too late. 

It was a bitter thought that only served to make a bitter taste fill his mouth. He’d tried. He’d done his best. That was always what he’d done.

Perhaps this was his punishment. He’d mulled over that for a long time, too. Sleeping for too long between episodes of not sleeping at all. He’d been a terrible demon. Demon’s didn’t go about saving worlds or caring about children or raising small gardens in their London flats. 

They didn’t go about loving Angel’s either. 

And he’d loved. 

Oh, how he’d loved. 

Flowers, gardens, and the angel’s within them. 

_I love you_ , he’d finally said, rooted and suffocating as ivy around a house. 

And then, like a single match to a dried leaf, he’d gone up in flames. 

But it was fine. 

It was _fine_. 

Wensleydale finally managed to get the drop on Brian and grabbed his pistol back. “I’ll show you, you git!” And he pistolwhipped Brian on the shoulder. 

The other boy went down with an _oof_. From the other end of the yard, Pepper took her moment to rage forward. “Come on, Adam! To victory!” 

_It was fine_ , thought Crowley, as he watched Brian throw a fistful of mud at Adam. It would eventually all work itself out. They’d go back to normal as they always did. Like they did after monastaries and holy water and _too fast for me’s_. They’d go back. 

They’d be fine. 

They’d be fine. 

They’d be-

He didn’t even notice the water pistol flying towards him. 

It was an accident, of course. The result of a badly timed wipeout on Pepper’s part. She’d swiped Adam’s legs from under him, betraying her own team. The antrichrist had fallen backwards, his hands shooting upward in shock. The water pistol he’d been holding flew out of his hand, through the air, spinning like a blunt-force ballerina through the air. 

It wouldn’t have done much to him, demon that he was. 

But he still closed his eyes and shielded his face for impact. Great. Another pair of glasses broken. Another awful bruise to nurse away. Just _wonderful_. 

And then someone was grabbing his elbow and tugging him away. He fell backwards, making an awful NGK sound as he did. The pistol fell into the grass. 

He opened his eyes. 

He was lying on his back. And he was lying in the garden. His back was squishing a few of the peonies. The lilies shook above his head and polen floated down into his hair. 

The children were still going about their game like nothing else had changed. 

Even though something had changed. 

Aziraphale lay beside him, his hand clasped tight around his arm, his free arm securely around his waist. Their sides were pressed together. Crowley held his breath, staring. In the afternoon sun, Aziraphale’s hair was ignited into a halo. He'd fallen into a patch of daisies, and they wobbled at his shoulders, waiting. 

“Aziraphale?” He swallowed. Aziraphale beamed and laughed wetly, nodding. “What are you doing?”

“My job,” said the Angel, and kissed him.

* * *

Later, after the two of them brushed the dirt off, had a quick cry, and did their best to disentangle themselves, they wound up sitting on the grass sharing cake. Or, rather, Azirpahale was eating cake. Crowley was watching him. 

Their hands stayed clasped. Aziraphale's was wide and warm and Crowley's was lithe and cool, and they fit together well enough to not let go.

"So run me through this again,” said Crowley. He’d forgone the glasses. The setting sun turned them a fierce topaz. “You’ve loved me-”

“Yes.”

“For _that long_.”

“Yes.”

Crowley groaned, letting his head bob onto his knees. “I can’t believe-”

“Well, it was a little hard, wasn’t it. What with our positions. I was afraid that if we were found together something might have happened to you.”

Crowley tilted his head, still on his knees, to look at the angel. His face pinkened, and he grinned. “You wanted to protect me.”

“I did.”

“And instead of telling me all that, you continued to commit Planticide.”

“Something along those lines.” He chewed on another piece of cake. “I was a horrible gardner, wasn’t I?”

“The worst, Angel. Couldn’t believe _you_ were crowned Guardian of the Garden.” 

“I told you, my dear. I wasn’t. It was a… misunderstanding, on my part.”

“And how’d you figure that?”

Aziraphale dragged the fork from his mouth. He leaned down and kissed the Demon again, on his soft, sharp, rose mouth. He tasted like honey and wine and something very, very kind. “There were more things inside the wall,” he said, eyes sparkling, and kissed him again. 

* * *

Once, long ago, there was an Angel put on the wall in a garden. 

God placed him there, on the garden with a sword, and watched carefully. 

And once, long ago, there was also a serpent. 

The Angel on the wall was not a very good Angel, as Angel’s went. God realized that quickly. Realized that he would enjoy books and pastel clothes. He’d enjoy food and wine and whiskey. He’d want to save the earth, but with some reservations. 

And the serpent in the garden (who was busy throwing tangerines at Eve and hadn’t yet noticed the apple tree) would be a terrible Demon as Demon’s went. He’d love children and humans and coffee and nice cars and quiet moments and rock bands and flowers. He’d also want to save the earth in a pinch, and probably in style with a flaming car. 

God watched them both carefully. Watched the way the serpent looked up at the Angel. 

Watched the way the Angel looked unsure down into the garden. 

_Oh_ , thought God. _Now that’s interesting_. 

And so she placed an Angel down on a wall. 

_Aziraphale_ , God had said. _You are to guard the wall and protect what is inside._

"Of course, Lord," he'd said, and then immediately went and drowned some daisies. 

She'd little vague, sure. But most things with her were. They had to be. The best Angels and Demons (even if they were terrible at being Angels and Demons) needed to learn how to figure things out on their own. 

And she was confident (watching Aziraphale try to hide the drowned daisies as best he could before going off and giving away his flaming sword just hours later, and the snake slither up the wall to watch the Angel with kind, hopeful eyes) that they’d get there. 

Eventually.


End file.
